


By Any Other Name

by EverydayAcolyte



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Antiva, Brecilian Forest, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Nervous Zevran, Romance, Seducing In Another Language, Speaking In Antivan, Zevran Being A Bird Nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverydayAcolyte/pseuds/EverydayAcolyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have to wonder what people can get away with when they're speaking another language. They could be saying anything. Mutter a dirty joke, point out your terrible taste in fashion, or perhaps even declare their undying love for you. It would make no difference. You'd never know.</p><p>Zevran uses this miscommunication to his advantage. He cares deeply for the Warden, that much is clear. He's just not quite ready to admit it to them yet. So in the meantime, he uses his Antivan as an outlet for his confessions.</p><p>They'll never know. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Which We Call A Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The Warden is referred to by the pronoun "they" so the reader can imagine whatever gender they wish. Happy romancing.

The Warden had many talents. They were strong. They were brave. They were as clever as a demon and as stubborn as a horde of ogres. They showed wisdom and thoughtfulness beyond their years, yet knew how to be deliciously sarcastic in response to a politician's absurdities. They had prowess in the battlefield that was unmatched, and they knew it too.

This made it exceptionally difficult for Zevran to find something he was better at. 

As someone who was used to having a collection of superior skills to gloat over, it put him in a very unfamiliar situation. Usually, he’d be able to charm his lovers with his unique quirks and achievements, yet whenever he’d show off in front of the Warden, they’d display a new ability of their own. It threw him for a loop; to be a professional seducer and still finding himself being utterly enamored by the Warden’s capabilities. While it was admittedly satisfying to be with someone as intriguing as himself, it disappointed him that he couldn’t find something that he’d be able to entice them with.

So when he discovered that the Warden didn’t know a lick of Antivan, he clutched at the opportunity and ran with it.

“Toccare loro e sei morto!” he’d yell in the midst of battle, threatening the darkspawn as his blades flashed in the sunlight.

“Danza con me stasera,” he’d request as he offered his hand for a dance, twirling them around the tavern for all to see.

“Voi siete la luce del cielo,” he’d hum as they kissed, the heat of each other keeping them warm in Ferelden’s unforgiving climate.

While some might say he was being childish, parading his bilingual skills around to impress the Warden, it was certainly effective. The Warden loved when Zevran spoke in Antivan. They didn’t understand a word of it. They didn't care. Just the way he flowed over the syllables, the affectionate lilt of his voice, was enough to captivate them. Both were pleased with the development, as Zevran could speak his native tongue and the Warden could appreciate the exotic intrigue of being called ‘ravishing’ in another dialect.

The only phrases the Warden knew were the ones Zevran revealed to them, which were a pitiful few. At first, it was because Zevran was selfish. He wanted to keep the ability to himself, to have one thing he would always be superior at. Yet as he grew more and more accustomed to speaking Antivan in the Warden’s presence, it evolved into another reason entirely.

Zevran had never been good at explaining his true feelings for someone, not when it had to do with love. He was a master of whispering sweet nothings into a target’s ear or pleading the same empty promises to a string of forgotten lovers, but when it had to do with confessions and commitment, he was at a loss for words. The only experience he had with such things was his time with Rinna, and even then, it was a drastically different kind of attachment than what he felt now. He had loved Rinna, that was true. But he had never completely trusted her. Not the way he did with the Warden. He'd place his life in the Warden's hands without a second thought of doubt. If only he could figure out a way to tell them that, to explain his indescribable faith and adoration to them, perhaps he could come to terms with it himself. But he couldn't. It was too early, too risky. It would clip the bud before the flower could even begin to bloom. Zevran would not stand for having his metaphorical garden wilting beneath his hands. He'd have to deal with his conflicting feelings a different way.

His solution was, in retrospect, fairly obvious. He'd just say it in Antivan. 

It began with a simple slip of the tongue, a mistake that would grow into something more. He was remarking about some obscure dagger technique when he first said it, _“mi amore”_ , my love. It had fallen from his lips so naturally, he barely realized he had even spoken it. It was only until the Warden pointed it out did he comprehend that he had used the title of endearment. Upon being asked what it conveyed, he quickly explained that it meant “my dear”, making it much less significant, and hoped that the Warden would be unable to detect the white lie. They believed him. They had no reason not to. This was the first strike of the shovel that began Zevran's descent into self-denying duplicity.

Since its first use, Zevran began to use the pet name more often. He snuck it into their casual conversations when he could, tagging it onto the end of a sentence despite it being irrelevant to the conversation. It brought him a private, guilty joy. It wasn't harming anyone, so he saw no reason not to indulge himself with his little endearments. It wasn’t like one of his companions were going to suddenly whip out an Antivan dictionary and accuse him of having deeper feelings for the Warden. At least, he didn’t think so.

After all, they had no reason to be suspicious. Speaking in his home tongue wasn’t a crime. Besides, even if they found out, calling someone “my love” didn’t mean he was suddenly going to offer his heart on a platter, did it? It was a common expression among couples back in Antiva. He himself had used it for an uncountable number of sweethearts in the past. It admittedly felt different when saying it to the Warden, something that felt dangerously like the truth, but Zevran wasn't going to overthink it. There was no reason for him to get riled by his slip-up, nor was there a reason for him to discontinue the practice. As long as he didn’t make a performance of it, he hoped his companions and the Warden would leave his mannerisms be.

But _mi amore_ was just the beginning. Being Zevran Arainai, he found himself repeatedly tempting fate. He didn’t leave it at simple affectionate labels.

He could declare things to the Warden, things he’d never dare admit in a language they could actually understand. _Ho bisogno di te_ , I need you, _sei mio_ , you’re mine, _morirei senza di te_ , I’d perish without you. It was melodramatic, but if only he was the one who understood, did it matter? He spoke easier in Antivan, not just because of the freedom of not being understood, but because he knew his home tongue far better than ruggish Ferelden. He could pick the right words, combine them the right way, line them up to portray his exact thoughts. Sometimes he almost wished the Warden _could_ understand him, simply so they could hear the prose that fell from his lips.

Zevran continued to push his luck for a time, rattling off statements so cloying that it would put Orlesian bards to shame. It was almost a game to him, to see how much he could get away with without the Warden catching a hint. It wasn’t until he realized the unfathomable truth of his own words did he slow his perils.

It happened one night while the Warden dozed beside him. Shadows from the fire outside flickered across the canvas of their tent, conjuring up images of swaying dancers and charmed snakes in their dreams. Zevran watched his Warden as they slumbered, their chest rising and falling in a steady, even rhythm. He couldn't help but grin. It was only while they lay together did they appear so peaceful. They looked remarkably different when they were awake compared to when they were asleep. During the day, they glowered and snarled and screamed profanities at their enemies, taxed with the heavy task of unifying Ferelden against the Blight. But while they slept, the lines of their forehead smoothed, their shoulders untensed, and their mouth eased into a faint, unknowing smile. There was almost an innocence to their expression, although Zevran knew better than anybody that the Warden was far from innocent.

Moments like these made him feel particularly special, like he was the only one in the world who was allowed to see the Warden so relaxed, so vulnerable. He brushed their hair over an ear, kissing them softly on the bridge of their nose.

“Ti amo,” he whispered.

I love you.

And he realized that he meant it. Zevran knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but it was still confounding to say the words. It could be expressed in a hundred different ways, but none were as bare and real as actually saying it. 

Even if it was in another language.

If someone had asked him if he believed in the possibility of falling in love again mere months ago, he would of laughed in their face. But as he gazed at the Warden, the fact of it stared right back at him. He thought it would be harder to accept, and yet the words came easily to him, like the lyrics of a song he thought he had forgotten. It settled within him comfortably, a pleasant hum in the center of his chest. Of course he loved them. It was obvious. Why was it just now that he realized it?

The Warden sighed in their sleep, resting their head against his chest. He landed an affectionate peck to their cheek before closing his own eyes.

“Ti amo tanto,” he repeated into the darkness. I love you so much.

Perhaps someday he’d say it in words they’d understand.


	2. Retain That Dear Perfection

It had been weeks, months, since Zevran had begun his charade. 

Zevran still spoke Antivan to the Warden often, but he was more careful with his choice of words. He tried not to repeat any phrases regularly, as he was afraid they’d become suspicious or curious and try to find its meaning. He also stopped saying anything overly sentimental while they were in Denerim, as there was plenty of travelers who resided there that knew Antivan. All it took was one comment, one “Oh, congratulations, you two!” or “It’s nice to see that people can still find love in these trying times", and his cover would be blown. This led to him forming a particular disliking of barmaidens and elderly grannies. They were too sweet for their own good. In the end, however, it was not a gossiper or old woman that nearly exposed him, but Ignacio.

Ignacio was an Antivan Crow, just as he was. He had been trying to recruit the Warden to finish some contracts. It is to made clear that this transaction occurred despite of Zevran’s clear objection. If hiring a former target wasn't the very pinnacle of laziness, he didn't know what was. Zevran loathed the idea of the Warden accepting the contracts. He wanted them to stay as far away from the Crows, from his former life, as possible. Not only did it put him in a risky position, as Crows are supposed to kill any assassin who failed to complete their job, but it put the Warden into a hazardous place as well. The contract for their head was still open. Until they disposed of the last dozen assassins signed up for the Warden’s contract, there would be the continuous possibility for an ambush. Zevran didn’t put it past Ignacio to sell them out and relinquish their location to the Crows.

Zevran also just didn’t like Ignacio very much. Cocky bastard.

He constantly mocked Zevran for failing his mission. What Ignacio didn’t know was that the elf considered his ‘failing’ to be one of the best choices of his life. 

Or he wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for Zevran's big mouth.

The Warden had been left quite disturbed after their discussion with Ignacio. Being reminded that an assassin may be trailing you at any moment can do that to people. So Zevran did what any good friend (or lover) would do; he comforted them. In common, he promised that he wouldn’t let the Crows hurt them. He said that he'd watch their back, and pleasantly so.

In Antivan, however, he pledged the rest of his years to protecting them. He swore that he would sooner allow someone to sink a blade into his stomach rather than leave them alone. _Voglio sempre essere con te._ He would always be by their side. It was supposed to a private confession, something only he could comprehend. 

He should have realized that Ignacio could understand every word. _Stolto._ He was a fool.

The Crow master had only chuckled and made some off-hand comment on how love had softened him, but it was enough to send Zevran into a panic. He rushed the Warden out the door, hoping to the Maker above that they’d take it as immature chiding and nothing more. Although he got a questioning look, he was relieved to find that they left the subject untouched. It wasn't until they had walked well into the next street that he began to breathe again.

Ever since the night Zevran realized his romantic inclinations toward the Warden, he had become increasingly paranoid that they would find out. As foolish and juvenile as it was, he continued using Antivan as a release.

It was like a secret he kept with himself, out in the open yet completely unexposed. He knew there was a certain cowardice to the habit, but it was a safe way for him to harbor his feelings for the Warden. Although they couldn’t discern what he was saying, it was comforting to pretend that they accepted his affections. If he spoke the same declarations in a tongue they could understand, he couldn’t be sure if they’d be pleased or conflicted by the idea. He couldn’t take the risk of rejection.

With past lovers, when he said “You mean the world to me”, he was saying it to either please them or to bootlick for his own intentions. But with the Warden, he found himself meaning it. It made it something bigger, something valid, something other than idle sweet-talk. It terrified him.

He still recited poetry to the Warden, still shared their bed, still called them his sun and moon, still compared their attractiveness to that of deities. He didn’t halt his flirtations or dramatic flairs, as it was anatomically impossible for him to stop. But it did make him be more careful of what he said. Absurd as the idea was, he was afraid that the Warden would be able to tell the difference from his usual coy banter to when he was being truly meaningful, and would confront him on it.

That was honestly what this was all about. It wasn’t the words that were the problem, but what they could lead up to: a confrontation. If the Warden knew, then the game would be over. Zevran’s illusion would break, and he’d be forced to accept whatever choice the Warden made. Yes, there was a chance that they’d return his feelings, but that outcome was honestly even more disconcerting. What do two people do when they’re “in love”? Get married? Have children? Buy a quaint little cottage by the lake? No, that wasn’t the life for the elven assassin.

And if not that, then what?

He was inexperienced with such things. He didn’t want to ruin the state of their relationship, especially since the Warden had enough to worry about as it was. Raising an army, spreading peace, fighting darkspawn. Adding romantic theatrics would hardly do either of them any good. The chance of requital wasn’t worth it. For now, confessing in Antivan would be enough. It had to be.

What Zevran didn’t think to imagine was the Warden having the exact same doubts about him.

If he had, perhaps he would have noticed the leather-bound book that the Warden had brought into camp one evening, or the way they hid its text whenever Zevran neared.

Perhaps he would have noticed the hours they stayed up into the night to read that book, practicing its contents on their lips, careful to stay silent.

Perhaps he would have noticed the way Warden took more careful consideration of Zevran’s words when he spoke in his home tongue, frustrated from not being able to understand.

Perhaps he would have noticed when the Warden could.

There was only small hints, a nod or a twitch. The way the Warden smiled subtly at the endearments Zevran thought they couldn’t interpret. The barely withheld laugh when Zevran whispered a dirty joke under his breath. The brief wince when Zevran recalled a bitter memory, muttering in Antivan to refrain from burdening the Warden further. The way they held him in their arms a little tighter after he finished speaking.

And maybe, just maybe, if he had noticed these implications, he would have thought twice before saying 'ti amo' again.


	3. Take All Myself

Zevran stretched, leaning back on a boulder. He stared up into the canopy of the trees, streams of sunlight trickling through the spaces between the leaves.

“You know, this place reminds me of home.”

The Warden was lying on a patch of moss a foot away, eyes closed and hands resting comfortably behind their head.

“Really? The Brecilian forest reminds you of Antiva?” they asked, crossing their legs loosely. “You always said your country was full of filth and prostitutes and corrupt politicians. I don't see how trees and rivers and grass can remind you of that.”

Zevran clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Now now, Warden. Surely you don’t believe that the entire Antivan kingdom is made up of back alleys and whorehouses, do you? There is much more to it, trust me.”

The Warden propped open an eye. “Hmm?" They rolled over onto their belly and blinked lazily. "Like what?”

“Rolling hills. Grand, snow-peaked mountains. Rivers so clear you can see the bottom.” He gestured with his hands. “Forests full of mystery and intrigue. Crops of grapevines that go on for miles. Ancient brick buildings that still stand strong, covered from roof to deck in ivy.” How he missed Antiva. In the right places, it was a beautiful country. Once more, it was _his_ country. He was no patriot, but he did hold a sense of pride for his homeland. He wouldn't admit it verbally, but he loved his Antiva. Filth and all.

“Then why is it you only talk about the dirty, rubbish-filled cities?”

Zevran grinned wryly. “Because that’s where I spent most of my time," he explained. “As an assassin, you don’t get sent out to the remote sceneries where no one lives. No, you go to the towns and villages and castles, where your marks are.” He squinted, lifting a hand to block the sun's glare from his eyes. “A Crow’s life does not allow the time to go sightseeing. It was only when I traveled did I get to see Antiva’s scenic marvels. Growing up in an orphanage in the center of the capital, I didn’t know anything else even existed until I left for my first contract. I thought the whole world was made up of grimy sewers and the like. Funny, really.”

The Warden sat up, staring at him incredulously. “Truly? You never snuck across the city borders or anything?”

“Ah, well. I did do that, yes,” Zevran admitted. “But there were only plains and farmlands directly outside of the capital. It didn’t do much to expand my knowledge.”

“Didn't you hear about other places, from travelers or merchants or something?”

“Of course I did. But I was raised in a place in which we do not believe anything until we see it with our own eyes.” He sighed. “I was a very cynical child, as you can imagine. The closest thing I had to a landscape growing up was the Rialto Bay.”

"Oh?"

The Warden immediately clung to the subject.

“Rialto Bay?” they inquired. It wasn't a question, but it was posed as one. They wanted him to describe it. They scooted next to the elf, tilting their body to rest on his. Zevran shifted, attempting to find a position for them to get comfortable in. The act was casual, practiced, like it was something they did every day. Indeed, it was. “Speaking of which, what’s the ocean over there like?”

He gasped dramatically. “That’s right! I forget that some people have never seen the Antivan sea!" His head swiveled as he made a show of his contemplation. "What a poor life it must be! To have never felt its salty waters, or sunbathe on its harbors... it's unthinkable!”

“But is it as beautiful as they say?” The look in the Warden’s eyes was so earnest, he could hardly refrain from laughing.

“Oh, yes.” He grinned, relaxing his arm over their shoulder. “And more. The sands are sparkling, white, and smooth. The waves are dangerously large, but nonetheless beautiful. You should see how it sparkles on a clear day. The sun is hot and golden and warms you down to your bones, nothing like the chill of Ferelden."

Zevran was thrilled to see the Warden completely enraptured in his descriptions. It was an advantage of having an accent that was considered enchanting by the locals.

"Indeed, the sun! Oh, the sun! I do not know why sun seems so different in Antiva, but it does. It is brighter, kinder. Walking along the shore while it sets…" He paused dreamily. "...It’s as if a piece of heaven itself has fallen and found a place on earth.”

He heard the Warden exhale slowly, as if waiting for him to continue. “It seems wonderful.”

He nodded. “It is.” 

"What was is like? Growing up there, I mean." 

It was just in that moment did he come apparent to the extent of his homesickness. There was a chance, a substantial chance, that he would never see his country again. Talking about it only made it worse, but the Warden’s curiosity fueled him to continue. 

“Ah, well. I learned how to swim when I was but a year or two old. Every child did. I spent many mornings fishing on its ports, and many evenings collecting seashells to give to the kind ladies that visited us in the orphanage. It was far from perfect, but it was my home. Is my home still.”

“I’d like to see it one day.” The Warden murmured, leaning their head against his temple.

“My dear, then go. After the Blight is finished with, plan a trip. Nothing is stopping you.” Except that they might be dead by then. But he wouldn't say that aloud. The Warden was already well aware of the risk they were in, and there was no need to unnecessarily spoil their otherwise lovely conversation. 

“Maybe I should,” they answered thoughtfully. They wrapped their hand around his, entangling their fingers. They nudged him lightly. “Though I think I’d enjoy it a lot more if a certain elf came with me to show me around. I’d be lost otherwise.”

Zevran coughed, seemingly choking on his own tongue. Bewilderment was evident in his voice. “Me, come with you to Antiva?” 

The cough gradually turned into a faux chuckle as he covered his surprise. He processed the proposition. Did they even comprehend the significance of their question? Most likely not. It was an innocent speculation, that was all.

Still...

The Warden was implying that they'd be content with staying with him after the Blight. He didn’t know whether he should feel thrilled or anxious. Perhaps a mixture of both. After stridently clearing his throat, he answered. “You know what, why not? I'll probably have to go back anyway to deal with some unfinished business with the Crows. Bringing someone to watch my back couldn't hurt.”

He squeezed their palm, giddy. What harm could a little theorizing do? None more than what he had already done by his speaking-in-Antivan act.

“I'd bring you to the very finest restaurants. You deserve only the best, after all. There’s this little place between the post office and the barber where they serve the best tiramisù. I swear, there’s nothing like a fresh cake straight from the oven.” Slowly, his theorizing sounded less like wishful thinking and more like a genuine proposal. "There's a woman there that used to slip me all the burnt pastries. I do not know if she still works there, but if she does, I must introduce you. I'm sure she'd like you. The two of you could swap all sorts of embarrassing stories about me.

They laughed. “Sounds like a lovely idea. It’s a date, then.” They landed a quick kiss to his lips.

He knew it was foolish. To dream, to plan. But the Warden looked so happy, so excited at the prospect of traveling to his homeland, he couldn't decline the apparition. He wondered whether it was the actual country or the prospect of going with _him_ to said country that really interested them. He piteously hoped it was the latter.

"So, tiramisù?" the Warden asked, continuing the conversation. They said the word oddly, but in properly accented Antivan. This should have been an immediate indicator that something was amiss, but Zevran took no notice. "What exactly is it? You said it was some sort of cake, but I'm afraid I've never heard of it."

"Never heard-?" Zevran looked at them as if they had just insulted his mother. "Why, tiramisù is only _the_ most delectable thing to ever come out of Antiva! Well, other than myself, of course." He batted his eyelashes and the Warden snickered.

"Oh, but of course!" They agreed. "But really, what _is_ it?"

“Mmhmm... Well, it's this pastry, see, about yay high." He indicated it's height with his hands, near five inches. "Ever had coffee? It tastes like that, but sweeter, with cream and cheese. I usually top mine with cocoa, but that's a personal preference." Simply talking about it made his mouth water. It had been too long since he had last gotten a taste. Ferelden cakes were fine enough, but they just couldn't compare. "I do feel like I must warn you. Upon first tasting it, it will ruin every other dessert in comparison. Once you go Antivan, you can never go back.”

"As to be expected, of course.” The Warden intertwined their legs with Zevran’s, their hips side by side with his. There was a mischievous glint in their eye.

He grinned, already aware of their intentions. “How so?”

“Pastries aren’t the only good things that come out of your country. If your cake holds up to the same level of quality I've seen of _Antivan goods_ so far, I'm sure it will be one of the most delicious things I've ever eaten.” Their voice dripped with implications. They smirked, a hand slithering down to his thigh. “As you said, once you go _Antivan,_ you can _never go back.”_

Laughter bubbled out of him, deep and natural. Had they always been so insinuating, or was he just rubbing off on them? He was a terrible influence. Not that he minded. Oh, no, he definitely did not mind. “I confess, it's true! We're absolutely _irresistible."_

"Which makes it rather unfortunate that most Antivans live in Antiva." The Warden let out a playful huff. "It's not fair for the rest of the world. People just don't know what they're missing."

"Luckily for you, _this_ Antivan is here to stay.” He smiled, his thumb drifting affectionately across their cheek. “That is, until you banish me for accidentally assassinating some important senator or whatnot.”

“And how exactly do you accidentally assassinate someone?”

He propped his chin up with his other hand, his elbow atop his knee. “You’d be surprised. Accidentally overhearing them planning to overthrow the to-be hero of Ferelden, accidentally hiding in their closet one night, accidentally slitting their throat while they're sleeping. It’s an annoying little habit.”

“I’m sure it is. Although that's an awful lot of accidents, and your example is quite specific. I’m beginning to wonder if this assassination has already taken place.” They looked at him accusingly, though continued to shift themself onto his lap.

“Perhaps. If it has, I swear it was for safety of our mission.” He grinned sheepishly. “But if you’d like, I can try to minimize the amount of ‘accidents’ in the future.”

"Hm." The Warden paused, as if evaluating how to respond. “Just be careful," they said, their eyes full with undisputed tenderness. They laid their palm flat upon his chest, resting in the hollow of his clavicle. "I don’t want to wake up to find you dead in the street because you provoked the wrong person. Be safe.” 

Zevran felt a tight pull in his chest. It was just like the Warden to turn flirty banter into something sentimental. They always did this. They would play and jest and tease, but then they'd go and say something like that would make his self-control crumble. He had an immensely strong desire to simply stop talking and take them then and there. Which was what he intended to do. Which was what the Warden also intended to do.

“Do not be concerned, mi amore.” Their eyes flickered to the side upon hearing the pet name, a pleasant flush skimming atop their cheeks. “I can handle myself.”

He cradled the Warden’s jaw, turning their head so they would look at him. When they swallowed, he could feel it against his knuckle. “But it’s pleasing to know that you worry about my safety. It’s been awhile since someone has cared whether I live or die. Thank you.”

The space between them became nonexistent. His kiss was innocent enough, short and sweet. It was the Warden who pushed back harder, grasping at the seams of his leather tunic, clutching the fabric in their fists. Suddenly, everything escalated. His hands slid down their back as they gripped him closer. One of their knees wedged itself between his legs, straddling him. An exquisite warmth spread throughout his abdomen, making its way up through his throat and out of his mouth. The humidity of the forest was nothing compared to the intense inner heat.

Maker, the _heat_.

“Io sono tua,” he breathed. I am yours. His words were muted as his lips went to their throat. The Warden’s smile widened, barely holding back a moan as Zevran nipped at the flesh of their neck. 

“Ti desidero.” I need you.

They hummed contently, running their fingers through his hair. He pulled back momentarily, gazing into their eyes. The look on his face was one of pure adoration.

He whispered into their ear.

“Ti amo.”

The Warden flinched. 

They quickly withdrew themselves from Zevran’s hold, their bare knee being the only part left making contact. The heat of the moment was suddenly lost, soured. 

He breathed deeply, attempting to catch his breath. The warmth inside him withered away, replaced by a seed of dread that planted itself in his chest.

“...Really?” they asked, their voice quiet.

He pursed his lips. “Really what?” 

There was an inkling of suspicion in his gut, but he ignored it. Surely they didn’t understand, did they? No, it wasn’t possible.

“Do you really mean it?”

Zevran stared at the Warden before the realization collapsed on top of him. His face paled. An odd noise came out of him, like the muffled croak of an injured animal. His stomach turned over onto itself, and for a moment, he thought he was going to be sick. They knew. Somehow, they knew.

He stood, his legs wobbling. 

Now, there was many ways Zevran could have reacted. He could have made an excuse. He could have blown it off as a joke. He could have even told the truth.

Instead, however, he did what many of us would do in his position.

He ran.


	4. At Thy Word

His feet carried him swiftly through the trees. The forest was thick with brush and thorns, scratching at his skin while he ran, but he didn’t care.

They understood.

The game was over.

He was a coward to flee. He knew that. But what else was he supposed to do? As an assassin, he was taught to retreat when the battle began. Running from his problems was a strategy that had been beaten into him since he was first recruited into the Crows. He integrated the same tactic into his everyday life. It hadn’t been the first time he had fled from such a situation. During his years in Antiva, he was known among the locals as a merciless playboy. The number of hearts he had broken, men and women alike, were countless. They were dalliances, distractions, perhaps even a mark he was instructed to seduce. Of course, they didn’t know that. They came to him, soul laid bare for the whole world to see, and he would have to decline, sometimes softly, and other times, not so much. And each time, he’d escape. Slip through a window, slide down a gutter pipe, leaving only a last wistful kiss for them to remember him by as he disappeared into the city’s depths, never to call upon them again.

But this was the first time he was on the receiving end. This time, it wouldn’t be him that had the choice. It wouldn’t be him to politely decline their advances. It wouldn’t be him to explain that their relationship was a just a trivial affair and nothing more.

It would be the Warden.

Which is why he ran. He didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want that final confirmation that he was head-over-heels with a person that didn’t, couldn’t, feel the same way. Running was an act of pure instinct, one that he was beginning to already regret.

What was he going to do?

Maybe he could just run forever. Yes, that was it. All he had to do was find a place he could lie low for awhile. He could hide out in some quaint village and wait until this whole blight dilemma passed over. Perhaps he could fake his death, arrange a good stabbing in a public square somewhere. He’d never have to confront the Warden, and over time, they’d forget he ever existed.

He entertained the concept for a moment before realizing its irrationality. No, no. That was stupid. It was childish for him to even conceive the idea. He couldn’t avoid conflict for another hour, much less the rest of his life. Not even he was that good at hiding.

He had to come up with another plan, and quickly. What was he going to say? How could he explain himself?

His thoughts were interrupted when something snagged at his boot and sent him hurling almost comedically to the ground. Tucking into a roll, he tumbled into a nearby oak, banging his head painfully against its brittle wood.

There was an audible thud, as well as an odd snapping sound.

Zevran slumped over, holding his head in his hands as he moaned in misery.

Maker, oh gods, that hurt.

As he searched for what had tripped him, his eyes fell upon a stray cluster of roots. He sneered at the offending foliage. “Porca alberi,” he muttered under his breath. 

Fucking trees.

This was what he deserved for being so preoccupied over some damn relationship. He rubbed the blackening bruise on his scalp, cursing vehemently. He tasted a familiar metallic flavor, and upon swiping an inquiring thumb across his gums, he found that he had nearly bitten through his tongue. It was nothing a poultice couldn’t take care of, but damn, it hurt like hell. In fact, everything hurt like hell.

It was then that he took notice of his ankle, which had begun to swell to an angry, violent hue. 

_Braska._

After a brief inspection, he came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, sprained. Maybe a torn muscle. Nothing seemed to be broken, but it was enough to hinder his ability to walk.

Suddenly his problem got that much more complicated.

He was gods know how far from the closest civilization. When he ran, he had done so blindly. Though he had the notion that the elven tribe was vaguely in the western direction, it wasn’t enough to locate a camp so small. This forest was dangerous. Even without the werewolves, there were rabid beasts and tree giants and other woodly horrors just waiting to rip apart a lamed elf. He had foolishly left his blades back at the camp, so he was completely and utterly defenseless.

He nearly snorted at the ridiculousness of his predicament.

Here he was, stranded in the middle of the woods, unarmed, ankle sprained, head battered, a sitting duck for any predator looking for an easy meal. All because he ran away from the one person that he doesn't want to run from.

It was despicable.

He sighed, straightening against the oak, the bark rough against his long ears. Birds twittered around him obnoxiously, flashes of white and tan buzzing throughout the branches above. 

If he had just stayed and faced the Warden like an adult, this would have never happened. Instead, he had fled like a kicked dog with his tail between his legs. And what for? Because they knew that he had affections for them? _Cretino._ Stupid, stupid.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

He had planned to tell the Warden. He really had. There was going to be music and dancing and a candlelit meal, every cliché he could possibly muster. But he waited too long. _After we finish collecting these artifacts,_ he told himself. _After we gain the dwarves’ support in the war. After we take care of the werewolves. After we end the Blight._ After, after, after. Maybe if he had done it his way, he would have been able to admit the truth.

No, that was an excuse and he knew it. He would have been just as tongue-tied and lip-locked, no matter the scenario. 

Zevran leaned back against the tree, using its solidity to hoist himself off the ground. Sitting around feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to solve anything. A simple sprain couldn’t stop him. During his time with the Crows, injuries were common. He had once swam with a shattered shinbone, danced with a dislocated knee. This was nothing.

He edged himself through the trees, using the low-hanging branches as makeshift supports. 

Perhaps the Warden would find him. 

To be honest, part of him was disappointed that they hadn’t ran immediately after him. Sure, it was juvenile, but he couldn’t help but wish they had stopped him. At least then they could have had a proper conversation.

He winced, having put direct pressure on his faulty foot.

It didn’t matter now. He had to focus on the task at hand.

To pass the time, he hummed to himself. Old Antivan lullabies, bawdy tavern tunes, a ballad or two. It helped take his mind off the throbbing of his head, the pulsing sting of every other step.

The snapping of a branch nearby drew his attention. It was followed immediately by footsteps.

For a moment, he thought it was the Warden. But the steps were much too heavy, and out of rhythm. Almost as if the walker had four legs instead of two.

Zevran quickened his pace, ignoring the zinging pull of his lame ankle. He allowed himself a brief glance behind him, only to be met with the sight of a grizzly bear a few yards behind him. It must have emerged from its cave nearby, concealed by the brush.

This was fine. He could handle this. As long as it didn’t notice him-

The bear’s head swiveled his way, and it let out a deep huff.

Zevran cursed under his breath.

He forced himself to sprint. His balance was off, and he had to use his hands to push off of nearby trees, but he was moving faster. This was good. If he got far enough away from its den, it may lose interest.

Of course, nothing was going his way today. Apparently his luck had decided to throw itself off a cliff this morning.

A thunderous bellow echoed in his ears as the great beast gave chase. He pushed himself faster, staring wildly at the trees around him, searching for an escape route. He may be agile, but in no universe could he outrun a grizzly.

He spied a tall cedar, branches low and splaying out in all directions. It would have to do. He slammed into its trunk, unable to slow his momentum, and pulled himself up to its first branch. It stayed steady. He skipped a level, leaping to the third, nearly missing it in his desperate rush. All he had to do was climb out of it’s reach and-

The bear roared below him, grabbing ahold of his leg. It ripped his boot clean off, leaving his foot bare. Luckily the material had taken the brunt of the strike, leaving only shallow, uneven slash marks down the length of his heel.

Despite the mortal danger he was in, he couldn’t help but mourn the loss of the footwear. The Warden had gotten it specially for him. It was a shame to see such fine leather wasted.

Before he could leap out of harm’s way, the bear swung a heavy paw, crashing against his torso and pinning his body to the cedar’s trunk. He hissed, the breath knocked out of him.

It was then that he got a good look at the bear. Not the largest he had seen, but there was something else that concerned him. Its eyes stared at him in a distant daze, a thin, milky layer over its pupil, indicating some sort of madness. Getting bitten was not an option.

Before the bear could take another swing, Zevran kicked wildly at the animal, hitting it squarely in the nose. It responded with a roar, hot drool sticking to his cheeks. It’s claws crashed down upon him and drove him fully onto the forest floor. There was a sick crunching noise that came from the depths of his chest, and he couldn't hold back a moan of pain. Shit. At best, he had broken a single rib. At worst, he had completely shattered his ribcage.

Adrenaline burned through his veins like wildfire. He flailed, rolling from underneath the great beast as his heart pounded in his ears. He spewed an assortment of vulgarities, a bilingual mismatch of Fereldan and Antivan.

“Cazzo, fuck, dio cane, shit, porca troia, fucking hell no!”

Before the bear could retake its position over him, it suddenly cried out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted who else but the Warden, who had thrusted a hunting knife into the creature’s thigh. The bear lost all interest in the elf, instead focusing its wrath on the actual threat. A howl resonated from its throat, laced with a pained, broken whine.

It rose to its hindlegs. Even though it wasn’t the biggest of its species, it was still at least a good foot taller than both of them. It snapped its muzzle, showing off its jagged, yellow teeth.

The Warden’s face ghosted white. They hadn’t thought this through.

One swipe. The Warden ducked. Another swipe. A claw clipped their side. They wavered, grasping their knife unsteadily.

There was no choice in what Zevran did next. He acted on impulse.

He lept onto the beast’s back, digging his single boot into its spine to hold him into place. With both hands, he pulled back the bear’s jaw, exposing its throat. It was an opening. If the Warden didn’t take it, they might both be dead.

Fortunately, they did. As the bear snarled, attempting to shake the elf from its back, the Warden refocused their blade. With a swift strike, they swung their knife into its throat, twisting the pommel through its thick fur for good measure. 

The beast fell to the earth with a last gurgling growl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was that? You wanted a final confrontation? Sorry, you get a bear fight instead. I promise I'll wrap this up next chapter.  
> Note that just because the Warden has a hunting knife doesn't at all mean they're a rogue. If the Warden you're imagining is a mage, well, let's just say they were super low on mana, or couldn't focus their magic without their staff. Yeah.
> 
> Knife-wielder or no, warrior, rogue, or mage, any smart adventurer would carry a back-up blade with them.  
> Right Zevran? _Right?_


	5. Call Me But Love

Zevran slid off of the bear’s back, his hands slippery with its blood. Fringes of fur stuck to his skin, which he hastily wiped off onto the nearest tree.

The Warden was kneeling in the dirt, their forearms splattered scarlet to match his own. They let out a sound of distaste and wriggled their knife free from the creature’s neck, bloodying their hands only further as they reclaimed the blade. He was sure that both of them were looking forward to their next bath. Despite what just happened, he couldn't help but hope that they'd take it together. Old habits die hard.

There was a quiet lull that customarily came after a battle, in which all parties took the time to calm themselves and become situated. The two of them were still breathing hard, hearts thumping, the last furors of combat having no target to be unleashed upon. Zevran shifted loose strands of hair from his forehead. He wiped away beads of sweat. One of his braids had become unpinned from his scalp and hung loosely against his cheek.

He didn’t hesitate going to the Warden. Whatever inevitably awkward conversation they would have due to him running off could wait.

He stooped down to their level, placing his hands upon their shoulders. His eyes wandered down their body, not out of carnality, but to check them for injuries. After a brief inspection, he was blithely relieved. They seemed perfectly intact, although their tunic had taken a rather nasty hit. It was slashed all the way across the midriff, baring the Warden’s stomach to the cool breeze. He’d have to purchase them a new one the next time they were in town. It was the least he could do. 

They shared a moment of silence, both unable to speak as the realization of what they had accomplished settled in. They had slain a mad grizzly with naught but themselves and an old hunting knife. While it was nothing compared to cutting down a camp of darkspawn, it was still something worthy boasting about.

Zevran grinned. “Well, it seems-”

“What the _**hell**_ was that?”

He immediately shut up.

“You can’t just run off _unarmed_ in the middle of the _Brecilian forest!_ ” Their voice was harsh and scolding, as if they were reprimanding a misbehaving child. “What if I hadn’t come along? You could have died!”

Zevran couldn’t help but scoff. “Please. I can handle myself. I’m an Antivan Crow, my dear. I’ve survived worse. Your help was appreciated, but not necessary.”

The look the Warden gave could cut through steel. The last time Zevran had received such a look, he had been caught cheating during a game of Wicked Grace. He cowered beneath their gaze, registering the extent to their fury.

“Really? Because being trapped underneath a bear really looked like you were _handling_ it!” they sputtered. “What would you have done? Seduced it?”

“I could have certainly tried!” The reply was a half-hearted attempt at humor. He was tired, bloody, and his chest hurt with every breath he took. His usual optimism was running out.

“Oh, I’m sure that would have ended just _swimmingly,_ ” the Warden grumbled. “You may be a Crow, but I highly doubt you could’ve used your charm against a rabid animal.” 

“You underestimate my abilities,” he simpered cheekily. “Now we’ll never know. Unless we come across another mad bear, the opportunity to find out may never present itself again. It’s a shame, really.”

_“Zevran, please.”_

The desperate, profound anguish in the two words caught him off-guard. It wasn’t a demand, but a request. He held his tongue, unsure of what to do, but knowing well enough to stay silent.

The Warden’s head was bowed, hands wrung together anxiously. Their words came out in a hush. “When I found you, I saw you trapped underneath a bear. A bear, Zevran. I thought I was already too late.”

They turned their gaze to him, the grief plain across their face. “I don’t care about gloating. You can tell the others that you wrestled the creature to death single-handedly if that’ll spare your dignity. But please, just… I can’t even catch my breath. Every way I turn, you’re risking your life. I can’t...”

The Warden trailed off, the end of their sentence inaudible.

Zevran felt an odd sort of ache inside him, something other than the pain of his ribs. To have another person fretting themselves over his safety was uncanny. He had been expecting the Warden to bring up his embarrassing retreat from earlier, yet instead, he was being chastised for being too erratic. He could hardly wrap his head around it.

But of course that’s what they would be worried about. He had known the Warden long enough to perceive their priorities. Safety of the innocent, safety of their companions, safety of themselves. Whatever came after that was irrelevant. Despite him frequently forgetting so, he was on that list of priorities.

He coughed into his fist, willing his voice into existence. Was he the only one having trouble breathing? 

“...I’m sorry. Thank you.”

They sighed. 

“It’s fine.”

The Warden brought their hand to their forehead, kneading their temple with their still bloody fingers.

“As long as you’re okay, it’s fine.”

As if to argue otherwise, Zevran began coughing again. This time, he couldn’t stop. Within seconds he was wheezing, incapable of bringing in air, both hands cupped over his lips. The Warden rose in alarm, rushing to his side. He could taste the bile rising in his throat, his lungs stinging. They steadied his shoulders, angling his head to keep his airway clear. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his fit subsided.

“Well,” Zevran rasped. “It may be a bit early to say that.” He brought his hands back from his mouth. It was speckled with a fresh layer of red.

The Warden cursed. “Come on, we have to get you back to the Dalish camp.”

They were already wrapping his arm around their shoulders. Even if he had wanted to protest, the tight grip they had on his waist wouldn’t allow it. He forfeited any ideas of restraint and simply went along, shifting some of his weight onto the Warden.

They helped him to stand, and off they went.

The going was slow. The only sound between the two of them was Zevran’s quiet grunts, made whenever he stepped too heavily or breathed too deep. Despite neither of them saying a word to one another, the air around them was brimming with noise. Chickadees chirped pleasantly, and dragonflies hummed next to their ears, flying inches away from their faces. Squirrels chattered away, squeaking at them territorially. Leaves rustled and swayed in the mild wind, scattering light like a kaleidoscope. It was a shame that neither Zevran nor the Warden were in the mood to enjoy nature’s finest.

In fact, Zevran was in another mood entirely. He was busy desperately trying to ignore the feeling of the Warden’s body against his. 

Their fingers curled around his hip. Their legs brushing against his thigh. Skin on skin, flesh on flesh. It reminded him too strongly of their shared nights in the Warden’s tent, something that really shouldn’t be on his mind at a time like this. He was on the verge of unconsciousness from the pain. Still, being Zevran, his thoughts couldn’t help but wander. They were breathing so heavily, so labored, it was nearly like…

He swallowed thickly. No, it was _definitely_ not the time to be thinking of that.

Zevran instead focused on his walking. He was obviously favoring his sprained ankle, reserving most of his weight to his other leg or the Warden. If he could minimize his limp, they’d be able to go much faster. The faster they went, the sooner they’d arrive at the camp. And the sooner they got to camp, the sooner Zevran could be done with this god-awful day.

Apparently he was a little too overeager, because the Warden immediately caught on to his intentions.

“Zevran.”

“Yes?”

“My arm is wrapped around your waist for a reason. You know that, right?”

“Because you can’t keep your hands off of me?”

He couldn’t see their face, but he could imagine them rolling their eyes.

“Support, Zevran. I know it’s a blow to your pride, but you can actually put some of your weight on me. Especially with _that._ ”

Zevran blinked. “With what?”

“Your leg. It looks… to be honest, it looks terrible.”

He peered down at his injured ankle. They were right, it did look terrible. The swelling had gotten worse, bulging colorfully along the socket of his foot.

“Ah. That.”

“How did it happen? Did you twist it while climbing?”

He considered saying yes, that was exactly what happened. It was much less humiliating than the truth.

“The bear nicked the bottom,” he admitted instead. They sniffed distinctly, unsatisfied with the answer. He wouldn’t have been if he were them. It was clear that something else had caused such damage, gauging by the inflated state of his ankle. He resigned to honesty.

“...And I may have tripped on a tree while I was running.”

He heard the Warden stifle a snort. His head snapped to their attention, and they muffled the sound with their spare palm, barely hiding their grin.

“Oh, yes, laugh at the injured elf. Clearly that will make him feel better.” He attempted to glare at them, but it was useless. Even he thought it was ridiculous.

“I’m sorry, I just… We just came back from a bear fight, and it was a tree that hurt you.”

“Not just the tree,” he reminded. “Coughing up blood, remember?”

The Warden’s smile faded instantly, leaving them looking guilty. They were quiet. Ah. That hadn’t been his intention at all. He had just gotten them talking, and here he was bringing up his state of mortality. Not the smartest move.

“Hey now. I was trying to make a joke,” he reassured. “Sure, I might be internally bleeding, but when has a mortal wound ever stopped me?” He nudged them teasingly with his elbow. 

And immediately regretted the action. The movement of his arm jostled his chest, making his ribs creak and strain. He could feel something crinkle inside of him, as if a bag was being punctured with a needle. He winced and bit back a wave of pain.

The Warden held Zevran level, their eyes wide with worry. “Should we stop?”

“No, no, let’s keep going. I’m fine.” 

“It’s been nearly an hour. If you want to rest for awhile, we can.”

“I swear to you, I’m perfectly alright,” he insisted. He attempted a smile, but it ended up as a barely disguised grimace. 

“I’m not convinced.”

“Come, we should-” He coughed, halting his rebuttal. They had been slowing down progressively once they had started talking, but his outbreak forced them to a complete stop. He hacked away while the Warden watched in apprehension, grasping their arms to keep himself upright. By the time he finished, there was a dribble of blood running down his chin.

The Warden frowned deeply. “That’s it. We’re stopping.”

Zevran begrudgingly obliged, allowing himself to be led underneath the canopy of a nearby maple tree.

It wasn’t until he sat down did he realize how much his body was screaming at him to rest. The entirety of his abdomen was sore, which he presumed to be from a broken bone. He could only hope it wasn’t more serious. His ankle throbbed tenderly. He propped it up on one of the tree’s roots, fully aware of the irony. 

“I know stopping to rest means you’ll have to go longer without healing, but overexerting yourself can kill you just as quickly.” The Warden sat beside him, watching him carefully. “How much does it hurt?”

He chuckled, though it strained his lungs to do so. “Truthfully? Quite a bit. But I am a professional at handling pain. I can endure.”

“I should have brought poultices along. I knew it.” The Warden hit their palm against their forehead, groaning irritably. “I thought we were just going to have a nice afternoon in the woods. I should have known better.”

“It isn’t your fault, my dear. You couldn’t have known I was going to…” 

His sentence broke off into nothing. He quickly switched topics, willing the Warden to ignore the reference to his running away earlier. “That bear though! It’s eyes were practically white! Do you suppose it was mad?”

They accepted the subject change gratefully. “It seemed like it. I don’t know any other reason it’d outright attack us. This isn’t the season for cubs, so it’s not like it was trying to protect its young.”

“I’m surprised we could kill it so swiftly,” Zevran said. “I mean, we didn’t have any armor or protection, and no real weapons. I know that we’re used to massacring entire armies of undead, but I’m still impressed.”

“And we just finished a huge battle, too,” the Warden agreed. “It’s like we have the worst of luck and the best of luck. We come out to relax, and instead get attacked by a bear. However, we survive the bear. I think the universe likes messing with me.”

“With _you?_ You’re not the person limping around with only one shoe.” He glanced down at his bare foot. “Speaking of which, I must apologize for losing my boot. I know they can be quite expensive.”

He had abandoned the damaged footwear back at the battlescene, tattered and torn beyond repair. The bear’s claws had left it nothing more than a pile of foul-smelling ribbons. 

The Warden waved it off. “No need. Just sell the one you still have to some peg-legged pirate.”

“Now that’s an idea!” Zevran smiled wide. It was a good sign if the Warden was making their own jokes. “Still, it’s a shame. They were lovely, lovely boots. They had been a gift, and I’ve already ruined them.”

The Warden smiled back. “You can buy us both a pair when we go to Antiva. I’ll consider that a fair payment.”

They didn’t realize the error of their words until it was too late. 

The theorized trip to Antiva. It stood as a direct reminder to Zevran’s confession, the subject that they both had been purposefully avoiding. 

An uncomfortable silence drew out between them. The Warden cleared their throat and turned away. Zevran looked down, studying the ground in front of him with a renewed sense of interest. Neither of them knew how to address the situation. He thought of trying to steer the conversation to something else, but he knew it was useless. They would always find their way back to this. It was unavoidable. 

Every awkward second that ticked by felt like a pound of brick being added to the pit of his stomach.

This was what he was waiting for, wasn’t it? The time for him to explain his actions, the opportunity for him to acknowledge his affections. He just couldn’t get the words to fit correctly in his mouth. How was he supposed to go about this? Play it smoothly? Admit everything? Beg them to forget it ever happened?

He tightened his fingers into fists. Honest. For once in his life, he had to be honest.

There was no use trying to postpone the inevitable.

“Così mi prendo si può parlare Antivan,” he began. So I take it you can speak Antivan.

The Warden looked at him with a mixture of relief and unease. 

“Sì. Alquanto.” Yes. Somewhat.

“Come hai imparato?” How did you learn?

“Wynne mi ha trovato un libro.” Wynne found me a book.

Of course she did. Nosey old woman.

“Come fai a sapere? Quanto è grande il vostro vocabolario? Da quanto tempo sei stato imparando?”

They held out their hands, shaking their head. “Wait, slow down. I’m not that good at it yet. I can’t understand you when you talk so fast.”

“Mi dispiace,” he apologized. “How long have you known?”

They took a moment to contemplate the question. “I started understanding most of what you said in Antivan about… three weeks ago?”

Zevran shuddered inwardly. He had said a lot in the last three weeks. He tried to remember each phrase, figuring what they now knew and what they didn’t. Not that it mattered much. They had already heard him say ‘ti amo’. He couldn’t get more straightforward than that.

“You know, you could have just told me what ‘mi amore’ actually meant,” the Warden suddenly chimed. “Saying it meant ‘my dear’ just resulted in me making an ass of myself.”

It was like they had read his mind. Humiliation flushed across his face at the confrontation of his lie. The one that started it all. “Oh? How so?”

“I was having an argument with this Antivan fellow in a tavern some time ago,” they explained. “I only knew a little Antivan at the time, but I tried debating with him in his language. To seem academic, you know.”

“And?”

“And I was trying to sound condescending, so I called him ‘mi amore’, thinking it meant something else.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” They offered a hesitant grin, daring to look him in the eye. “That mistake mixed with a bunch of other mismatched Antivan, and the guy thought I was coming onto him.”

Zevran snickered, disrupting it swiftly with a cough. “Ah. That’s… unfortunate. Unless he was attractive. Then I must congratulate you on your good luck.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Misfortunate it is.”

The Warden laid their palms flat upon their legs, leaning back against the tree trunk. “Really though. You didn’t have to lie. So what if it meant... you know.” They shrugged their shoulders. “You’re a romantic, Zevran. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Just you being a flirt, like always.”

He rubbed his knuckles idly. Yes, he should have known that. In fact, he did know that. Perhaps it was part of the reason why he lied about it in the first place. It _hadn’t_ been just frivolous teasing. He had meant it as more.

“Just like I understand how you saying ‘ti amo’ doesn't really mean anything.”

His blood went cold.

“You… what?”

“It’s fine, really!” They laughed, though it was clearly forced. “I get it. You had no idea I could understand you. You were just saying whatever fanciful thing popped in your head. You were wooing me, which I do appreciate. I actually kind of feel bad. You must have been terrified, worried that I thought that you… thought that. I probably would have ran too.”

The fake cheerfulness in their voice made his heart ache, but he still wasn’t properly comprehending what they were saying. Were they excusing him? Could he honestly get out of this freely? 

“Ah, yes. Exactly. Yes, of course.”

He bit his lip, worrying the flesh between his teeth. If he gave into the lie, as convenient as it was, the Warden and him would never further their relationship. They’d always think he was with them for purely physical means. The idea hurt more than what he was afraid of happening if he told the truth. 

He swallowed.

“...Actually, no. No, that isn’t right at all.”

The Warden’s eyes widened in surprise, not expecting his correction. He took a deep breath, attempting to stuff his fears down inside him. This was it. Now or never.

“Mi amore, I meant what I said. I didn’t expect you to understand me, but everything I said, every word I spoke, was the truth. The most recent included.”

He might as well say it again. It may be the last time he would have a chance.

“My Warden, ti amo. I love you.”

He expected silence. 

He expected laughter. 

He expected disdain.

What he didn’t expect was a crushing embrace.

Arms were enveloping him, tight enough to make him question his ability to breathe. It pained his ribs, but he ignored it. He felt a cheek against his own, hair ruffling against his ear, lips pressed onto his neck. They were saying something, but he couldn’t make out what.

His brain caught up with his senses, and he returned their embrace, cradling their shoulders with his arms. He didn’t know what it meant, whether it was requital, acceptance, or pity, but he didn’t care. 

He felt nearly weightless. No more hiding, no more fear of what they would think. It was out there. He said it, and couldn’t take it back. What would become of it depended on the Warden. It was terrifying, but also relieving, in a way. It was out of his hands now.

He breathed, bringing in the scent of the forest and of leather and of _them_. Of sweetness and spice and sweat. Never had merely holding someone been so undeniably _satisfying._ He could stay like this forever.

But he couldn’t. Their eternity was cut short when he heard a distant shout.

Zevran opened his eyes, not remembering to have closed them in the first place.

“Wynne, I found them! They’re over here!”

Alistair’s voice rang out through the trees, followed by the happy relief of an elderly mage. After lingering a moment longer, the Warden pulled away. They stood and waved their hands above their head, signaling their companions.

The two were quickly upon them. Zevran knew he should be angry about the sudden intrusion, but honestly, he couldn’t. He felt numb. Besides, it only made sense that the rest of the party would come looking for them. They had been missing for quite awhile.

The next hour passed in a blur. Alistair was talking to him, but he couldn’t understand a word the warrior was saying. He nodded dumbly, muttering broken sentences under his breath. He did hear the Warden though, who excused his current state of stupefaction from the pain he was feeling in his chest. Pain in his chest. That was laughable. His heart felt like it could burst.

The familiar tendrils of Wynne’s healing magic washed over him, and within minutes, his foot regained its normal coloring and he could breathe properly. Then they were walking again.

He stayed near the back, dragging his feet as he tried to grasp what had occurred. The Warden hadn’t spoken a word to him since Alistair and Wynne found them, though they kept sneaking peeks, eyes darting away every time he looked at them. A thousand questions ran through his mind. Did they regret it? Had they left something unfinished? What if they had been only pitying him, and were trying to figure out a kind way to let him down? After all, the two of them had agreed on nothing more than a physical relationship. Would... _Could_ the agreement change? 

Finally, he caught their eye. They smiled softly, veering closer.

And the next thing they said put all of his worries at ease.

“Anch'io ti amo,” they whispered.

I love you too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they kissed. _A lot._ Wynne had to cover Alistair's eyes.
> 
> I hope the build-up was worth it, and that you enjoyed this sappy little fic of mine.  
> Feel free to give feedback, critique, and general thoughts in the comments.


End file.
